


I Really Can't Stay (Baby, it's Cold Outside)

by wtvoc



Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Christmas, Meet-Cute
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-17
Updated: 2014-12-17
Packaged: 2018-03-01 22:21:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,160
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2789798
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wtvoc/pseuds/wtvoc
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Roped into volunteering for the City's Tree Lighting Ceremony, Emma Swan doesn't know what to make of this guy who seems pretty intent on sitting in Santa's lap. A Christmas Comedy.</p>
            </blockquote>





	I Really Can't Stay (Baby, it's Cold Outside)

“You've _got_ to be kidding me.” Emma held out the puke-green velour bundle in her arms like it was a bomb or a baby in need of a diaper change. Actually, either of those would be less problematic than what it really was.

“You promised,” Mary Margaret scolded, somehow still managing to sound kind. Or more like parentally disappointed, maybe, since she was basically the group mom.

“Yeah, yeah. Put your guilt trip away. I'm going, I'm going.” Emma headed for the door marked “Changing Room!” in alternating red and green font that was affixed using paper tape with mistletoe printed on it. She was pretty sure that was Mary Margaret's idea of spreading cheer to everyone she had roped into volunteering for the city's tree lighting ceremony this year. Last year had been snowflake cut-outs hanging from the ceiling with string and paperclips. And glitter, always lots of glitter.

At first, Emma tried pleading work to get out of it, but then Leroy had loudly and smirkingly informed her while she was on the phone that she had that night off, and Mary Margaret heard it (that rat bastard Leroy).  _Then_ she tried saying she had a date, but that was laughable because Mary Margaret knew that Emma didn't date so much as bar troll and leave before the condom was off.  _Then_ she pleaded being a Grinch—perfectly true—but in the end, she simply couldn't say no. Mary Margaret was always,  _always_ there for her and only ever harassed her about returning the favor during the holidays. Emma might not feel whatever it is that put such a shiny, happy Christmas glow in her friend's eyes, but she did recognize that if it weren't for Mary Margaret (and her boyfriend-slash-forever-fiance David), she'd eventually be found dead and buried under old back issues of  _Shotgun News_ and  _In Style_ weeks after the neighbors complained about the smell.

That's how she found herself in a makeshift dressing room at city hall, struggling into a fake velvet, faux fur-trimmed mini dress that was probably made by volunteers from the Ladies' Auxiliary for the Sisters of the Founders of the Preservation of Whatever back in the winter of '78. The thing barely covered her ass, and no wonder Mary Margaret told her to ditch her heels and wear boots instead; in heels, she would have looked like some actress in a Santa porno or something. Now as she sighed and examined the effect in the mirror—dress up to _here_ , boots just below the knees—she decided that she looked like a very merry go-go dancer.

Awesome.

Emma didn't know how she could have forgotten the horrible costumes she'd seen on last year's volunteer, probably because Ruby didn't seem bothered by it and Emma had been too busy trying to rewire the ancient PA system to notice. How Ruby got out of it this year was beyond her, but that girl was going to hear it from Emma in the morning.

There was a quick rap at the door followed by the now-enhanced elven features of Mary Margaret wearing a similar costume.

“Oh my God, you look great! Don't forget the hat!”

“Hey!” Emma spun around, holding the skirt down with one hand and pointing an accusing finger with the other. “Your dress is normal length. No fair!”

“Sorry,” her stupid friend laughed. “I can't fit the small, my boobs are too big.” She grinned, not one  _bit_ sorry. “Seriously, you're making that color happen.”

“Ugh. How am I supposed to take good pictures in this?” Emma gestured down and noticed how...pronounced her rack was.  _Jesus_ . At least it had long sleeves, so she wouldn't freeze to death immediately.

“You stand up straight?”

“You know that's not a good way to get a good shot, Mary Margaret.”

“This doesn't have to be a pro thing, Emma. I told you that.”

“Yeah, but—“

“You guys ready?” David popped his head in and Emma started laughing after she turned to face him.

“I know, I know,” he said, stepping in and holding his hand out in that “calm down, ladies” way. “I look ho-ho-ho-horrible.”

“You look amazing,” Emma said happily, reaching out to tug on his fake beard.

“Whoa.” David eyed Emma's dress and looked over at Mary Margaret with disapproval. “Bit short there.” Mary Margaret ignored Emma's exasperated “I told you!” and brushed at invisible lint on the arm of David's Santa suit.

“She looks like a helpful, happy little elf.” Emma scoffed at that, leaning down and reaching into her bag for her trusty Nikon.

“Hey there, Emma. Didn't need to know you prefer boy cut underwear,” David said, and when Emma reached to cover her ass with her hand, that jerk Mayor just laughed and laughed.

As Emma removed the lens cap and checked to make sure she had a fresh SD card in place, Mary Margaret turned into busy commander mode, bustling away to find the portable printer and the high school volunteers with their cookies and cocoa tables. Her change in demeanor from sweetheart mom-type to civic duty head bitch in charge was almost comical as she opened the door and started barking orders. Emma and David simply followed in her wake with linked arms, Emma's camera bag slung over David's shoulder.

As they made their way through the dull halls of the underbelly of city hall and headed for a door marked in that jaunty, festive font—“This Way to the Tree!”—Emma squeezed David's arm. There were hundreds of people out there, and was that a news van? She looked down at the her bare legs and sighed.

“We do these things because we love her, right?”

“Right.” David's easy laugh calmed her down and she almost felt adored in that sweet, friend way when he leaned over and kissed her cheek. “Chin up, little bounty hunter elf. And skirt down.”

“Oh, ha ha.”

xxxx

“When does it begin? I'm bored.”

Killian didn't bother to look at his so-called mate. Instead, he reached into Will's pocket and swiped the flask he knew to be tucked there, unscrewing the cap and taking a hearty gulp.

“Oi, that's mine!”

“ _Ugh_ . What is this, anyway?” Killian regarded the flask warily, nearly having spit out the rubbing alcohol taste from his mouth. “That's... this is horrible.”

“It's called Everclear. Some gent at the Gas 'n Go told me about it.” Will shrugged, utterly unconcerned that complete strangers were trying to kill him with toxic liquor. “You stop noticing the rubbish taste after a few hits.”

Killian doubted that but took another swig nonetheless. The unpleasant burn led to a warm tingle in the bottom of his empty stomach and he grimaced, looking about the crowd for... he knew not what. He asked himself why they were there and had no real answer. A vague recollection of Will calling him up and saying, “I've a  _great_ idea,” came to mind and he suppressed a smile. Will was always saying that exact thing, and since it was true fifty-two percent of the time, Killian continued to allow his friend to lead him on one random adventure after another.

The last time had involved getting lost in a national park and falling down a ravine (“I didn't think hiking would be so bloody  _treacherous_ ”). Time before that, they'd ended up in an actual opium den, gotten chased by what had almost certainly been members of the Yakuza, and Killian had somehow awoken the next day with five crisp hundred dollar bills in his back pocket (along with a phone number for an “Allie,” but he had no idea whether that had been there before as he had no recollection of winning, withdrawing, or stealing the money in the first place). Over the years, he and Will had enjoyed shared adventures, and he'd simply learned to roll with it whenever his friend announced that he had their next great one all lined up. Sometimes they ended up having the time of their lives, sometimes they ended up fearing for their lives. All Killian knew is that he was always entertained whenever Will was involved.

Will's problem was that he was forever bored, and Killian's problem was that he could never resist a good dare. The two in combination ought to have been toxic, but call it his luck of the Irish (“or in my case, dumb fookin'  _Derbyshire_ luck,” as Will was fond of saying) because they never got seriously injured (the scar on Killian's face from when Will decided that they were going to take fencing lessons notwithstanding) or into  _too_ much trouble (Will had an inordinately large amount of idiotic misdemeanors on his record, most of them related to indecent exposure and-or drunk in public). So when they found themselves stumbling out of a bar and slightly tossed that very evening, they decided to wander about town, looking for amusement.

Which turned out to be Storybrooke's annual Christmas tree lighting ceremony.

Will figured they could find some agreeable lasses and Killian did not argue the point; they'd been in this town for a little over a year, Killian having decided it was time to leave behind the bad memories and literally sailing off into the night. When he'd told his best mate he was off for better ports Will had blithely hopped aboard, declaring he had his passport and his best pair of drawers and really, what more did a man need?

“Whiskey,” Killian had declared, tossing a freshly-filled flask and a smile, and off they'd went. Now Killian scraped by taking adventuresome souls out for a day trip on the open ocean and Will...made it known that he was the sort of man who could creatively procure items, and if he occasionally toed the line of legality, Killian was sure he wasn't the man's mother. As long as no one suffered, he figured Will was the keeper of his own mortal soul and only occasionally chided him for his shadier dealings.

They'd stumbled about, laughing, looking for anything to alleviate the tedium of a Wednesday night, the fact that Will had insinuated he had a plan forgotten. Then Will saw a likely group of women giggling and heading toward the civic center, and he'd comically altered course to follow them, Killian just sighing and following his easily distracted friend.

They almost left when they saw what was happening; there were many children in puffy winter coats and ridiculous hats clutching at their parents' hands, their faces beaming with a zeal that meant  _Santa_ . The large tree that had been erected and decorated with ridiculously oversized and colorful balls and stars loomed large over the milling throng of impatient parents, their offspring, and what looked to be staff running around. A throne, presumably for the Man himself, waited with a table stacked with boxes of candy canes.

“What's all this, then? Santa going to be giving treats to all the good boys and girls? We're too naughty to make the list, eh?” Will jabbed his elbow several times into Killian's ribs before hopping up and down a few times, trying to see over the heads of a group of surly-looking teenage volunteers. One of the taller boys turned around and stared down at Will.

“The tree lighting?” he drawled. “Even you should be able to see it, the tree's very tall.”

Killian sighed and reached out to put a calming hand on Will's shoulder. The last thing they needed was a repeat of the Great Baltimore Excursion of 2009 when Will lost his motorbike on a bad toss of dice, Killian got himself a regrettable tattoo, and he'd gotten into the best fist fight of his life.

“Leave it, Will,” he said quietly, doing everything he could to keep the laughter out of his voice. His hot-tempered friend had many buttons, and his height was about three of them. “Let's go find those...” Killian was interrupted by the high-pitched crackle of a PA system being turned on, so he dropped whatever it was he had been about to say and turned with middling interest toward the dais a few feet to his left, hoping Will would follow suit.

“Yeah. All right,” Will said, folding his arms and flexing his jaw.

A dark-haired, gorgeous sprite of a woman dressed in an elf costume took the podium, and Killian could instantly see that she was in charge of this entire thing with the way she carried her head and spoke with assurance despite the ridiculous get-up she was wearing with such nonchalance. He could almost believe that elf was her natural state with the way her smile gave way to a mischievous twinkle in her eye. She grinned several times, and he found himself wondering idly if she was someone of importance.

His musing was answered a moment later when he thought he heard her say she was the mayor of Storybrooke; their place at the back of the crowd meant clarity from the PA system was not possible, and at any rate, he wasn't really attending what she was saying.

Blessedly, her speech was short and punctuated with only light applause. She gestured toward the tree several times, and after much bustle and fanfare, “Here Comes Santa Claus” by Elvis started playing; then the tree lit up.

He had to say, it was fairly impressive. American displays of pomp and grandeur tended to far outstrip that which he was used to, but he always did enjoy the more ostentatious things in life, his own simplicity in living notwithstanding. He merely appreciated a good show, and this Storybrooke Tree Lighting was certainly an excellent one. That's what he was thinking just as Santa came out, anyway.

But that was all before he saw  _her_ .

“Wow,” he breathed, and though it was a quiet expression of awe, Will caught on quickly.

“Hey, that's a nice piece of elf there.”

The woman at Santa's side was in the same costume as the mayor, but to completely different effect. For one thing, her dress was almost indecently short, and an odd need to cover her with his jacket overtook him; whether due to the nip in the air or because he didn't fancy the idea of the teenagers and men and Will ogling her legs he did not know or care to dwell upon. Perhaps it was in her stance, the defiant glare she was shooting toward the podium, the “you owe me” look she was giving in response to the mayor's beaming grin telling him everything he needed to know about the blonde in an instant. One, that she was a good friend because she clearly was not there for civic duty or holiday spirit. Two, that she had talent with a camera because of the way she was holding it, and three, that she was not easily won over with words and did not trust easily by the way she held the camera like a shield. This was not a woman to be trifled with.

Of course, that made him want to trifle all the more. He always did appreciate a challenge.

“That's it, then. You have first claim, so it's your turn.”

“What?” Killian said, not attending his friend and not really caring.

“That blonde, mate. The game is this: a pint if you get her name. Two pints if you get 'er number.”

Killian chuckled as he craned his head over the suddenly surging crowd, the children all dragging their parents toward Santa and his elf (and the fathers looking happy to be dragged). He'd lost sight of her temporarily, and he found himself wishing for the first time in his life that he had a child and therefore an excuse to talk to a woman. How extraordinary.

“No, thank you. She looks like she could kill me with that camera of hers.” They were standing alone now, the bulk of the crowd having gone to see Santa.

“Aye, that she does, Kill. All the better reason for this: I  _dare_ you to go sit on Santa's lap.” Will smiled smugly before giving Killian a terrible sentence to utter at the moment of lap sitting.

Oh, hell.

“You're an arse.”

“Aye.” Will blinked once and nodded his head crisply two times before taking a swig of the swill in his flask. “That I am. So, do we have a dare, or are you punkin' out on your old pal Will?”

Killian sighed deeply. He really never could resist a good dare, which is how they ended up in such trouble so often. This might be the first time he looked forward to it, however.

“Challenge accepted.”

“Excellent!” Will beamed. “Time for old Will to see about some cutsies, then.” He strolled off and made his way to the line, and Killian watched with amusement as his oldest friend began gesticulating wildly. He could imagine the tale Will was spinning to the grinning man in the line; Will had the gift of gab and an easy demeanor, and Killian doubted it not that in no time he'd be standing a little closer to the front. Indeed, by the time Will waved him over, they had managed to bypass six different sets of children in their quest to see Santa.

Sometimes, when he went over his own thoughts, he shook his head ruefully.  _He was going to wait in line to sit on Santa's lap._

Ignoring the beautiful blonde with the heavy fuck-off vibe for the moment, he let his eyes roam to the man in the suit. He seemed affable enough, his grin flashing wide as each child came up to him in varying degrees of awe. Then he finally let his eyes drift to the camerawoman, watching as she uncomfortably attempted to find a position that did not compromise the dress she was wearing against her will. As he was unable to see her face, he imagined that she was muttering to herself, possibly cursing her friend and her friend's ability to talk her into anything. He smiled at the thought, utterly certain he was right. He'd never met the woman, didn't even know her name, but he knew he had her pegged in that regard. She was there for her friend, and the way Santa kept laughing at her attempts to remain decent likely meant the two were not an item.

_Good thing, that_ .

He wasn't sure what it was about her that drew him so; he didn't think it was simply her near-ridiculous beauty, although that certainly wasn't a drawback, not even with the horrible green dress. Or maybe it was the defensive set of her shoulders and her intriguing loyalty in the face of the obvious fact that she did not wish to be there spoke to him; either way, he relished the challenge, as he so often told his friend.

As time passed and they edged forward in the line, Killian's staring at the blonde helper seemed to attract the attention of her mayor friend as she not-so-subtly made her way down the line, occasionally shaking the hands of parents and leaning down to talk to children with a large, open smile on her face. When she reached Killian and Will, she stopped and folded her arms.

“A bit old for Santa, aren't we, boys?” Her smile was in place, but there was a tone of warning in her voice, and Killian did not miss the side glances she cast toward her friend.

“I still believe,” shrugged Killian, which actually was true. Well, he was a firm believer in the  _spirit_ of Christmas, and he cared not that Will constantly mocked him for it. Being raised by a brother who was determined to always give him a happy Christmas and Killian's always wanting to make sure Liam saw that he thanked the sometimes sorry efforts had actually imbued Killian with fond feelings for the holidays. Yes, he put up his own tree. Fresh one, too. None of that faux shite that looked like AstroTurf wrapped around pipe cleaners. He didn't go Griswold with decorations or any such thing, but there were definitely blinking fairy lights strung up on his boat. Perhaps that was why the unwilling helper elf intrigued him so—she seemed like she needed a bit of Christmas cheer, and he was tired of Will's sad bastard mooning over Ana act. Maybe he could coax a smile from the blonde, and have someone new to buy a gift for.

_Sentimental claptrap_ , he told himself, not realizing a self-deprecatory smirk curled the corner of his mouth as he looked toward Santa and his helper.

“Do you, now?” the mayor said softly, her eyes searching his face a moment before a broad, genuine grin lit up her face. She put her hand out and introduced herself. “I'm Mary Margaret Blanchard, the Mayor of Storybrooke. And you are—?”

“Killian Jones, the sailor from Ireland. This here is Will Scarlet, the uhh. Wha'd'you call it.” He ran his hand through his hair, slightly uncomfortable as he realized he was about to make a joke about quick fingers or sticky fingers or some such thing, which seemed inappropriate for more than one reason.

“I do odd jobs around town,” Will offered, sticking his hand out at a high angle, his close-lipped smile still jovial despite the fact (or more likely because of the fact) that he was not exactly sober and steady on his feet. Mary Margaret shook it warmly and looked around the line before her eyes made their way to her friend.

“Listen, guys. I've seen you two around town. You seem harmless, so I'm just going to say this once.” She stepped closer, her first smile (the pleasant Mayor, non-genuine one) on her face as she spoke, her lips barely moving. “You'd better not be in line because of Santa's helper. Leave her be. She doesn't take shit from anyone, and she knows how to hog-tie a man while wearing heels.” The mayor stepped back, her civic leader smile firmly in place as she stopped to enjoy the stunned looks on their faces.

Will recovered first, as Killian was fighting the urge to look at the petite mayor's suddenly much more interesting friend lest he suffer injury to his groin at the hands of the leader of the town.

“Milady, I can assure you: we aren't standin' in line to see the blonde. Me mate here wants to sit on Santa's lap, assumin' that's all right with you, and all.” Mary Margaret seemed mightily amused at that, her genuine grin returning as she shook her head back and forth.

“Somehow, I believe that. Okay, then!” Her voice lost the scary, threatening tone and returned to her happy mayoral one. “Hope to see you guys around more! Maybe I'll start spending more time down at the docks...” And as her voice trailed away and she went to speak to the harassed mother behind them, Killian decided that it might be a good idea to get on the good side of the mayor of Storybrooke. She was terrifying.

It took a good forty-five minutes to get to the front of the line, and by then Killian was feeling both impatient and elated. Will kept elbowing him and saying, “Eh, eh, eh?” and while he was sure his friend was feeling glee at the thought of him sitting in another man's lap, Killian's increasing giddiness had more to do with the now surly elf taking photographs. He watched her the entire time, watched the way her tight smile pulled at her cheeks each time she tugged at the hem of her dress with futility; watched as she would take one slight step forward and bend her back leg, raising the camera in a smooth move to take a shot of Santa and the children balanced on his legs, some crying, some bored, some rapturous. She took every photo, her firm voice occasionally calling out directions like, “Okay, smile,” or, “Uhh, Santa, fix your bea—fix your  _hat_ ,” or, “Oh, honey, Santa's a good guy, I've known him for years!” (that last one in an exasperated and amused tone).

She seemed to ease into it as the time passed, and he decided she had more settled into her fate than anything. When his turn was next, he couldn't help but notice that there was a rash of gooseflesh on her lovely, bare legs. Normally he would appreciate that, but he found himself slightly worried that it was far too cold for short skirts. A prickle of irritation at her friend the mayor for not providing leggings of some sort arose in his mind. How interesting. He did not even know the lass's name and yet here he was, concerned about her body temperature.

Warning bells started blaring in the back of his mind, that he was  _not_ here for the next woman he would inevitably disappoint, that she was  _not_ his next adventure, but then she was turning to him and sweeping her arm toward Santa.

Their eyes met and he wished to be prosaic about it, to go on in raptures about the color of her eyes (he could not remember, exactly) or the spattering of freckles across her nose (they were not make-up for the costume, were they?) or the high roses in her cheeks (probably from the cold). No, Killian could not describe the first time she spoke to him as a magical moment, as some sort of Christmas miracle. Mostly when he thought back on it, he wanted to laugh in embarrassment.

She opened her mouth to speak, most likely to tell him it was his turn, but instead she gaped for a moment before clamping her mouth shut and smirking. She regarded Killian and Will, her eyes darting between the two of them and then over to Santa. Her eyebrow raised in a silent form of insouciant questioning, and when he saw the wicked manner in which the corner of her mouth lifted to reveal her rubbing her tongue along the sharp points of her teeth, he understood what the mayor had been warning them about.

This woman was confident and strong. She tied men up for a living? Law enforcement, perhaps. As she sized him and his friend up with those three seconds of silent regard and in an instant found them wanting, a near-predatory look entered her eyes. He knew right then that his usual raillery and charm would not work on this one, not one bit. It threw his head into a tailspin, the way she looked him up and down again, her lashes dipping then fluttering up in slow perusal until their eyes (green, like... _some_ thing in the ocean that was green) met.

He had never been so aroused by such casual contact in his life. And another first—he had no idea what to do about it.

“So, do you guys wanna do Santa at the same time, or are you taking turns?”

Oh, hell.

Killian felt a hearty slap on his back. “Me mate Killian here will do the Santa thing on his own, Ma'am.”

“It's 'Miss.' Elves go by 'Miss.'”

“Miss--?”

“Buddy the Elf,” she replied flippantly, turning to face Santa and ignoring Killian completely. With a sigh, he headed toward the man in the suit, suddenly furious at Will and wondering how the hell he was going to sit on another man's lap and not look like a complete clod or worse, some sort of pervert.

As he stood facing the man whose eyes were, indeed, merry and twinkling, Killian closed his own eyes and sent a silent prayer to the blessed Virgin, begging for forbearance, for Will to grow up, and even for him to perhaps stop doing every dumb little thing his friend ever dared him to do.

“And have you been a good little boy this year?” Santa asked. Killian swore he heard Miss Buddy the Elf mutter, “doubt it,” behind him.

Smothering a laugh, he approached Santa and leaned down a bit.

“Listen, mate. I was dared to be here, so if you could possibly make this the least humiliating thing on God's green Earth, I'm sure I'd be grateful.”

“Was the dare to just come up here, or do you need to get a picture on Santa's lap?” The twinkling eyes were now crinkled and he was shaking with suppressed laughter, and Killian decided right then and there that Santa Claus just might be an asshole.

He opened his mouth to respond with something rude when Santa held out his palm in a staying gesture. “Relax, Blue Eyes. Last year, a bunch of high school jocks were dared to drop trou right when the camera went off. Just...keep your pants on, and we'll get through this just fine.”

Killian broke into a grin (both at the mental image and Santa's easy-going manner) and turned around, sitting down on Santa's knees and announcing loudly as per Will's dare, “All I want for Christmas is for someone to jingle my bells.” The few adults left in line seemed perplexed; Will doubled up in laughter, Mary Margaret clapped both hands over her mouth, and Buddy the Elf did a hell of a job not laughing. She was stoic and managed to look both utterly bored, terribly impatient, and exceedingly sexy all at once.

Then there was a muttered, “say whiskey!” and a flash, and it was done.

Santa was still laughing as Killian stood up with a silly grin. He turned around and shook the man's hand, telling him, “Good form, sir.” Then he turned to face the blonde and walked toward her. Perhaps he was a tad closer than convention allowed, but he could not help himself; she was finally smiling at him. When he stuck his hand out to see if she would shake it, his blood trilled in triumph when she bit the corner of her mouth before pressing her palm into his.

“Tell your friend over there that he'll keel over if he laughs that hard every time you do something stupid,” she said, her eyes flashing with challenge. He raised his brow in response, wondering what he could say to prolong the contact but knowing there were still a few children left to see the Man.

“Well, I'd hate to think I was an unwilling participant in anything questionable.”

She raised her brow in kind and said, “Something tells me you're anything but unwilling.”

“Aye, you're right about that.” He stepped even closer, still holding her hand in his. “Where there's a  _Will_ ,” and he tilted his head toward the bugger who was doing his best to look sober and failing utterly, “there is often alcohol. And questionable decisions. Sometimes bail money.”

“I believe that,” she retorted, glancing askance at his friend then back to him. “I'm surprised I haven't run into you two then, yet. I chase guys like you for a living.”

“Guys like me?”

“Yeah, you know. Non-law abiding... well, I guess you're not a citizen?”

“Not quite, no.”

“Well, okay, then. Miscreants. Trouble-makers. And I always get my man.”

“Darling, I'm all too happy to be caught.”

“I bet.” She finally let go of his hand, looking around self-consciously. They both came to the realization that they were holding up the line, the noises of whining and shuffling and muttered cursing around them. Funny how he hadn't noticed the sounds of impatience, and he wagered she hadn't, either.

As he walked away with Will punching him in the shoulder, he regretted not following up, not drawing out a promise to meet later,  _not getting her name_ .

“ _Eejit_ ,” he muttered to himself. This was most definitely not one of their better adventures. Especially not when Will produced one of those fake Santa hats and tossed it at Killian's face. He grimaced and put the thing on, not bothering to ask where Will got it but figured it was a sound way to top off the evening.

As they ambled away—“A pint, then? On you, of course?”—Killian contemplated dunking his head in a tub of cold water until the new year or perhaps suffocating his friend with a pillow. It took a bit to be on their way because Will was busily stuffing free biscuits into his pockets and kept stopping to look at the decorations and Killian was too morose to stop him. After finally making their way out, he wondered what was next on the evening's agenda when he heard the slap of boots behind him.

“Hey, Irish!”

It was her.

He turned, not even attempting to hide his grin.

xxxx

“So...” Mary Margaret drew out the word, doing that thing she does when she wants to tell Emma that maybe she shouldn't get the stacked five-inch heels when a sensible kitten is so much classier but doesn't know how to say it without making it sound like she's condemning Emma's need to scare dirtbags with her sexuality.

“So?” she repeated, packing away her camera, no longer caring if her ass was hanging out because they were finally fucking  _done_ .

“So that hot British guy—“

“He's Irish,” she interrupted, wincing as she bent lower to tuck the strap into the case. She knew that Mary Margaret would have perked at that, at the fact that Emma bothered noticing a detail about a man. Usually she kept it pretty simple: if he had a penis and was marginally attractive, she'd give him a chance to not be too much of a douche before following him home. If he had a rap sheet and a tendency to run from responsibilities, she'd give him a chance to surrender before whipping out her zip ties. But  _no_ , she had to go and notice a distinguishing detail about him and then  _comment_ on it, goddammit.

“Irish, right,” Mary Margaret said, and Emma heard the note of zeal in her voice. Oh,  _great_ . “Isn't Ireland considered Britain?”

“Pretty sure saying that'd get you a punch in the mouth, Mary Margaret.”

“All right, fine. Your Irish boy was pretty hot, right?” Emma made a non-committal  _hmph_ noise in the back of her throat. “And I'm pretty sure he was interested in you, so.”

“So what?”

“So, you're obviously interested in him?”

“What makes you say that?” Emma snapped, finally standing after not being able to stall anymore. Her so-called friend was standing there looking warm and smug wearing a heavy coat and a beatific smile. Jerk.

“Emma,” Mary Margaret said in a disapproving tone, sounding once again like the group mom. “I think I actually saw steam rising off both of your bodies while you were shaking hands.”

“Mary Margaret—“

“And you didn't let go of his hand for a good, solid two minutes.”

“Mary—“

“And he didn't take his eyes off you the entire time he stood in line.”

“Really?” Oh,  _dammit_ . That  _definitely_ sounded  _way_ too eager. She could feel the shark-smelling-chum vibe coming off her friend in waves.

“Yes, really,” Mary Margaret said sweetly, but Emma knew better. “Go talk to him.”

“What?” Emma laughed, shifting her bag to her other shoulder. “No way. He looks like a  _Details_ magazine someone rolled up and left in the gutter.”

“Yeah, but that's hot, though.”

Mary Margaret wasn't wrong.

“And you kind of look like a  _Maxim_ that someone rolled up and dipped in—“

“I'm not introducing myself to some guy while wearing this get-up, okay?”

“He seemed to appreciate it.”

“I—“  _am running out of excuses_ . “—am too cranky.”

“You're always cranky. Anyway, I can think of a way to un-crank. Bet he can, too.”

“Aren't you supposed to be like, the moral compass of the town or something?”

“Emma.” Mary Margaret smiled softly, putting her gloved hand on Emma's arm. “If you weren't attracted to him, or there wasn't some sort of connection, or you really don't want to, fine. Don't go. But I think maybe you should just go over there because it seems like you want to. Maybe I'm off, but I don't think so.” Emma shuffled a little bit, not meeting her friend's eyes because...maybe she wasn't wrong. Mary Margaret took her hand away and stood a little straighter before continuing. “Be bold. Be fiery. But most of all, be yourself. Except maybe let him buy you breakfast in the morning this time.”

Emma gaped at her friend; it's not like the sex pep talks were unusual or anything, she just wasn't normally this aggressive about it. Actually, she was usually the one heeding caution, but that was more of the “are you sure this is what you really want to do?” variety, not the encouraging kind.

It's not that Emma was afraid to take a chance with this guy, more like life experience and her job telling her that taking a chance usually ended in the way shitty way.

“I don't know, Mary Margaret.”

To her credit, she didn't sigh or roll her eyes at Emma, merely smiled that same “I'm sad but here for you” smile before fishing around in her pocket.

“Here. His picture. I mean, he's hot. If you don't want it, I do. I doubt David will mind.” This time Mary Margaret's grin was open and mischievous, and before Emma could think about it, she snatched the printed photo and gave her friend an exasperated look. She looked down at it and was slightly disappointed; not at her camera work—that was good, as always. You don't get good at finding dirtbags without being familiar with the zoom button and white balance. No, she was disappointed because despite the fact that she had captured his shit-eating grin perfectly and even David's highly amused, close-lipped smile and eye twinkle, it wasn't the same. The camera couldn't capture the way his obscenely long eyelashes fluttered a half-second before he opened his mouth, and it had somehow missed the freckles at the corners of his eyes and okay, yeah, maybe she'd stared at him for a long time before making him leave with her sarcasm.

In a flash of self-observation, Emma knew that she would kick herself repeatedly if she let him stumble away like so many before, but somehow she felt that this one would bother her more than the other guys, and she wasn't exactly sure why.

Kind of funny how she suddenly needed to know—needed to understand what it was about him that irritated her so much, annoyed her to the point that if she didn't even try she'd get pissed. Even if it was just to find out that he was awful, that he liked watching golf or thought women should quit working to make babies or that he owned a Nickelback CD.

Ugh. She was  _interested_ in him. She wanted to know more.

And her internal compass didn't tell her that she was going in the wrong direction when she turned around.

A flash of unreal blue eyes, an open face, and her lie detector  _not_ going off hit her, and maybe it was the general good cheer surrounding her on all sides or maybe she was just so cold it was affecting the decision-making part of her brain, but for whatever reason, Emma thought, “eh, fuck it,” and started jogging in the direction he'd left, hoping he was still around. Then she saw two figures unsteadily making their way down the sidewalk just past city hall, occasionally knocking shoulders, the shorter of the two looking down at his feet like he had to focus on putting one foot in front of the other.

“Hey, Irish!”

The thing about Emma Swan was that she knew her own mind, always had. Uncertainty was something she couldn't deal with growing up; she could remember Mary Margaret telling her that living life on such black and white terms seemed an awfully lonely existence when they first met. At the time, Emma couldn't believe the brass balls on the small pixie of a woman talking to her like that, but that was what made her keep the lunch date Mary Margaret had suggested for the following day. Next thing she knew, she was actually counting on someone outside of herself for the first time in her life, and David became another person soon after.

She knew the two of them would wear her down eventually, but who knew Emma would give some random guy the same chance to tear her down while she was dressed inappropriately and during the hated (loneliest) time of year that was Christmas?

She almost chuckled when he startled, coming to a halt in an awkward half-step before turning around. The biggest, smuggest fucking smirk she'd ever witnessed in her  _life_ curled on his face, the kind that made her want to slap him or kiss him.  _This is going to be bad_ .

Or really damned good.

“Miss Buddy the Elf,” he intoned seriously, but that flash in his eyes was nothing but...happiness as he looked her up and down. “You're still in your uniform. No rest for the wicked, then?”

Emma repressed the urge to roll her eyes or say something cutting, but that left her with no response at all. She remembered she was clutching his picture in her hand so she thrust it forward, glad to have an excuse to say something that wasn't too—Emma, as Mary Margaret would say.

“You forgot your picture. Didn't want you to be without some sort of physical memory of your bet,” she said somewhat breathlessly, still huffing from the exertion of running to catch him. She hoped he wouldn't bring that up later, that she was the one to chase him. Then she realized that would mean she acknowledged that this could possibly, maybe be more than a one-time thing and the feeling of panic that welled up her throat was both so familiar and startling. She swallowed a few times and forced a smile onto her face, hoping he hadn't noticed.

No dice.

“You all right there, lass?” he said softly, stepping forward to put a steady hand on her arm, much like her friend had just a moment ago. His friend took a seat right there on the pavement, resting his elbows on his knees and his head in his hands. Emma ignored his question and instead nodded toward his friend.

“He gonna be okay?”

Killian waved dismissively behind him with his hand, the other still on her arm. Not possessively, not aggressively; easily, and without any demands. Just...a guy making sure she was okay. It made her sad that she hadn't felt that in a long time.

“He's fine. He's got the spins. He just needs some bottled water and crackers.”

“Those Ritz things,” came a muffled voice from the ground.

“Oh,” Emma said, feeling her brows furrow. “Um. Should I help?”

“S'all right, lass,” he said, squatting down and putting an arm around the waist of the man on the ground who didn't seem to be putting up any sort of fight. In a move so smooth she knew he'd done it a thousand times, he straightened somewhat to standing, his friend slumped against him. He turned to face her and grinned, and that's when she knew. This guy was no dirtbag. He was a loyal guy, probably liable to put up with a lot of crap from the people he cared about.

_Warning, warning_ , her inner boy alarm cried. It was that one that told her things like, “look, he loves dogs, probably loves kids, abort,” and “he speaks warmly of his mother but not to a worrisome degree, probably well-loved as a kid and will make a good partner, get outta there” and “he talks to your eyes and not your chest, probably respects women slightly more than the rest, leave.” Get out while you can.

She didn't.

Maybe it was the fact that it was fucking cold and she really needed a coat before she died of exposure, or maybe it was the way he was swaying along with his friend and laughing, this full-bodied kind of thing that made him throw his head back and practically howl at the moon in delight. Maybe it was that when he was done laughing he looked at her, traces of mirth still in his eyes and when she returned his happiness with a small smirk, his eyes glinted. She swore it, they shone brighter in the dark. Whatever the reason, Emma went for it. She stuck her hand out.

“Emma Swan.”

He smiled in appreciation and then quirked his lips. He shook his friend by the waist.

“I know, I know,” the drunk groaned. “A pint, then.”

“Later,” Killian muttered. When she cocked her head in question he looked embarrassed. He hesitated and that almost did it, she almost turned around, but then he seemed to come to some sort of decision. “Will here bet me I couldn't coax your name and number from your lips.” When she raised her eyebrow he continued with a grin, “I might have a problem with that.”

“Yeah? Hey, do me a favor. Don't make any more bets about me.”

“You've got it,  _Emma_ . I'm Killian, and this here's Will.” He finally grasped her hand which she didn't realize was still hanging out there. His hand was so warm she almost moaned in appreciation. “Love, you're freezing! Here.” Without warning he let go of Will, who sort of bent at the knees before landing on his ass again. Killian shrugged out of the leather jacket he was wearing and came up behind her, draping the thing over her shoulders.

That time she actually did moan, it was so warm. It smelled...oh, God. She didn't even know, it smelled fucking good, like warm man, and a crazy dance of images flashed in her mind of watching TV with an arm over her shoulder and laughing at stupid crap and being awakened by soft murmuring in her neck and she realized she wanted it. Maybe even with him.  _You don't even know him!_

“Oh, but if you keep making sounds like that, I'll have to leave before my friend here gets the wrong idea,” he murmured, nearly making her jump he was so close to her ear.

She shook her head, whether to clear her jumbled thoughts or in reaction to his blatant words, she didn't know. “Easy there, tiger. I might look like a fragile girl in this dress, but I promise. I can and will kick your ass.”

“Looking forward to it,” he said, his lips right at her damned skin before pulling away. He came before her, smile and stance insolent. “It was lovely to meet you, Emma Swan the Elf. We'll be on our way, then.” He leaned over to once again lift his friend to sort-of-standing and before Emma could so much as shout out her phone number, they were walking away.

“Oh, hell,” she muttered. She really was going to chase this guy, wasn't she? “Hey, Killian!”

He stopped abruptly and turned to look over his shoulder. “Aye, lass?”

“Don't you want your jacket back?”

He grinned and winked at her, the cheeseball. “I keep my phone in the inner pocket. I suspect I'll be remembering that after I tuck this pain in the arse to bed, and I'll probably have to call it to find out where I've left it.” He hefted Will slightly higher before continuing. “Just give me an hour?”

She couldn't help it, it was so damned clever she had to smile at him. “What makes you think I'll answer it?”

“A man can dream, Emma Swan.” Okay, so he had a knack for turning ridiculous cliches into really damned good things to say. “You have an hour.”

_Right. I have an hour to get out of this stupid dress and into something... warm, only something warm._ Not one of her cute thin sweaters and the good, clean jeans. And definitely not some of those five-inch heels. A giddy feeling of anticipation rushed up her skin and she only hoped he couldn't see the flush from where he was still standing and looking behind him, like he was making sure she was done talking before going about his business. It was subtle and he probably didn't even realize he was doing it, but that one tiny little detail—that he wasn't so confident that he would be rude and in fact made sure she was done, didn't assume anything about her—cemented it for her. Yeah, she'd give this one a chance.

“One hour,” she said, affecting a firm voice before making a shooing motion.

“One hour,” he repeated with a nod. He turned and carefully made his way down the street, and Emma turned in kind. She had things to do.

**Author's Note:**

> this story will have a smutty sequel and that's a stone-cold promise from your ole pal wtvoc.


End file.
